


In a Coat You Borrowed from James Dean

by fakempire



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Everyone is slightly more innocent than in canon but they still manage to make terrible choices, F/F, F/M, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Musicians, blues musicians au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakempire/pseuds/fakempire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So much music nowadays is so much like 'You don’t know me. I don’t need you,' and all the music then was kind of like, 'I don’t care if you don’t love me, I will lie down in the road, pull my heart out and show it to you.'  Do you know what I mean?' - Amy Winehouse</p><p>Van Helsing's is a pub renowned for famous guests and thrilling musical premieres. In the past few years, however, its popularity suffered a steady decline. Taking over after her father's death, Integra sets about the hard task of restoring the pub to its former glory. A certain bouncer caught up in Arthur Hellsing's shady business and Integra's (ex?) girlfriend are not making this any easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never lived in the UK, so I kept the amount of britishisms relatively small in order to save you some cringeworthy moments. The title is a paraphrase of a line from Don McLean's "American Pie". I hoped to find a more fitting quote, but I'm hopelessly in love with this song.  
> This is a human AU, meaning no vampires whatsoever. Disappointing, I know.

It's a slow evening at Van Helsing's, Alucard observes as he shakes heavy raindrops off his hat and places it on the brass coathanger. The parlor is uncharacteristically silent. Even the faded photos depicting the pub's famous patrons seem less dazzling somehow. There's Jacques Brel and Julie London and Françoise Hardy, all lined up and ready to prove that Van Helsing's isn't just a bar but an institution. Tonight however they don't seem up for the task.

Three sad middle-aged men are staring dejectedly into their drinks, not sparing each other a glance. A few well-dressed girls huddle together in a booth, exchanging educated remarks on terrible things that are happening elsewhere.

Real life – the hard life people lead in unforgiving daylight – has no entrance to London pubs. It wouldn't fit beneath their low ceilings, couldn't survive in their dark entrails. It suits Alucard just fine. His real life has been exhausting enough to reconciliate him with the idea of spending the rest of his time in the shadows.

It feels like it's been ages since he'd last set foot in this place. He isn't sure he missed it. His skillset makes him perfect for some tasks but isn't absolutely necessary for an average bouncer, so when Hellsing's daughter grew up to an age when concealing certain ongoings in the house would become impossible, Alucard has been relegated to a hideout on the outskirts of London. Rotting on his own in a dingy safehouse wasn't much worse than what he used to do when Arthur Hellsing did have a need for his talents, really.

He can't seem to relax, even though to the untrained eye he must appear perfectly at ease, blending in seamlessly with weathered floorboards and crooked barstools in the dim light, just as weathered and crooked and dim-lit as they are. His spine is wound tight as clockwork when he sits down in the far corner, warily eyeing the stage. He half-expects Arthur to show up and greet the audience like he used to do; with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other.

“Anything I can do for you, man?” The bartender approaches him warily, brandishing a dirty piece of cloth like a weapon. He's a lanky redhead, the hair combed into a ridiculously long braid. One of the man's eyes is hidden beneath a black eye-patch. The confused look on his face indicates he might not be sure whether he should clean the table or dust off his new customer first.

“Not much,” Alucard replies sourly, “but if you want to make yourself useful, bring me a glass of scotch. Single malt on the rocks. _And_ an ashtray.”

“Sorry, you can't smoke in here,” the man answers with an irritated look on his face. “And if you won't show me an ounce of respect I'm gonna show you the way out. You Brits pride yourselves on your manners. Try _using_ them for a change.”

Alucard briefly wonders at the miracle of seeing another non-Englishman here, then reassesses his priorities. After all, he does feel insulted.

“I will smoke wherever and whenever I want to. Now bring me my order, _if you please_.”

The man sighs deeply. He seems to be very proficient in the art of sighing soulfully; Alucard can't help but wonder if it's a circumstational mannerism or a trait of the character.

“Look, I'm sure you must be one of those big guns Walter mentioned, and I'll be glad to bring you any drink you can come up with, but I'm fairly sure you're not above EU regulations. Want to smoke, go outside. Won't kill you.” The man chuckles as if he's made a great joke. Alucard doesn't share his amusement.

He straightens in his seat and sets one hand atop the table, threatening to stand up. He feels the old animal stir in his slumber, ready to pounce. If the bartender knew just whom he was dealing with, he'd pipe down in a second. The bartender, however, remains entirely unphased. This helps him compose himself. Seeing people with no respect for violence reminds Alucard that there are some people in this world who never need to learn the value of a heavt fist.

“It's raining,” Alucard comments idly, stroking the table, pretending it's been his intention from the start. He laughs internally at the concept of EU regulations having anything to do with the likes of him. If only the man knew just how much of an illegal immigrant he was dealing with, he wouldn't toss the term around so lightly.

The bartender offers him a toothy grin and scribbles his order on a piece of paper ( _As if there's much to remember_ , Alucard scoffs internally.) “Now, I'm pretty sure you won't melt either,” he remarks and puts the pencil back behind his ear, and Alucard feels a vicious urge to strangle him and snap said writing utensil in two. “Be right back. Better hurry up with that cigarette, though. You wouldn't want to miss tonight's performance.”

Alucard pointedly ignores the man's insolence and rises from his chair. He puts on the black trenchcoat - the least extravagant piece in his wardrobe. He's not hiding from anyone, but he's far from showing off too. So unlike his old self.

When he walks outside, the crisp autumn air bites him in the back of his throat in a most pleasant way. He lights a cigarette and the tiny halo of his lighter joins the dozens of blinding streetlamps, then flickers out. A group of teenagers rushes by, clinging onto colorful umbrellas for dear life. They run like they're escaping a typhoon. Their roaring laughter is louder than the rain, livelier than Oxford Street on a Friday afternoon. Shielding the cigarette from the downpour with his gloved hands, he scans the pub's facade for any significant changes. The golden letters still read the same, the doors are as blue as ever and the three footsteps leading up to the entrance didn't get any more narrow.

“Feeling nostalgic, aren't we?” asks a familiar voice and Alucard turns around to see Walter, the only person in the world with an explicit permission to surprise him. It's almost funny how much he trusts this old man who calls him up at 3 a.m., asking about his opinions on articles he's never read.

Walter is a crack in the illusion of perfect stillness, his wrinkled face and pale lips a living testimony to the passage of time. He makes Alucard feel old; he remembers first meeting Walter some twenty years ago and latching onto him in a way he's ashamed of even now. His admiration wasn't entirely uncalled-for, though when he thinks about it, having approximately zero contact with his peers until the tender age of fifteen must have played a part in it.

“Not really,” Alucard replies with a neutral expression. He doesn't really want to examine his innermost thoughts regarding Van Helsing's tonight. “Unless you'd classify the overwhelming feeling of _nihil novi sub sole_ as nostalgia,” he sneers.

“Everyone feels a bit of _nihil novi sub sole_ on a Friday evening. It's only reasonable. You won't stay bored for long today, though. ”

“Is it true, then? This really will be her first public performance? Not a grand entree, if you ask me,” Alucard points out, gesturing vaguely towards the inside. Walter nods curtly.

“The sponsors seem dissatisfied with the recent changes to the place, as minuscule as they are. Some even believe they have a legal claim on the pub, despite Arthur's will coming quite clear on these matters. It's quite... _understandable_ that they won't show tonight. I wouldn't put it past them to discourage others from coming, too.”

Alucard offers Walter a lop-sided, bitter smile. This is something new and interesting; the Hellsing family almost stripped of their power, struggling to survive, eager to please.

(He's wrong about the last part, but he doesn't know that yet.)

“And what is _your_ opinion on this, my friend?”

But before Walter can come up with a sufficient repartee, there's a ruckus around the corner – some shuffling, muffled cursing, a loud thud and a crash that sounds not unlike some musical instrument breaking in half – and both men shuffle closer to take a look at whatever's happening.

And what they see certainly is a sight to be remembered.

Beneath a flickering streetlight stands a tall, rugged fellow (wearing a cassock and an unfitting leer that almost masks the raw fear in his eyes), whose imposing figure would otherwise dominate the desolated street. Right now, however, his whole presence seems to shrink away from the sheer rage of a young, blonde woman, who (as the evidence indicates) must have hit him with a guitar. At least once.

Pieces of said guitar are strewn all over the streetwalk. The man sports a nasty bruise above his left eyebrow.

_Nice_ , Alucard thinks to himself, _though she could have aimed a bit lower and give him the perfect black eye_.

Another blonde (a bit plumpier and seemingly more upset than the first) is desperately trying to take control of the whole situation.

“You didn't have to hit him!”, she exclaims in a high, panicky voice. “He hasn't done anything! I mean, yeah, he did, but _please_ don't kill him. I'd rather have _him_ end up in jail, not you. Especially today. And look at what happened to your guitar!”

The other blonde _growls,_ staring daggers at the man. She stands completely unmoving, like some sort of Roman statue. Alucard is so impressed he completely forgets about his sizzling cigarette and only drops it when it burns his fingers. Walter, on the other hand, looks incredibly alarmed and rushes to her side, cautiously patting her on the arm in an attempt to either calm her down or stop her in case she tries to rip the priest apart.

“ _Th_ _is_ _bastard_ ,” she hisses through her teeth, “harassed Victoria. Give me one reason why I shouldn't eviscerate him here and now.”

Alucard decides it's his turn to step in.

“If you ask me, I'd gladly flay that git like the animal he is, but this would probably ruin more things than just your guitar. Let me deal with him.”

Walter takes the chance and chimes in.

“I'm afraid he's right. We should call the police so Miss Seras can file a report and everything will...”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. The woman narrows her eyes and glares at Alucard out of the corner of her eye.

“You.” She says, her tone absolutely glacial. “You must be the bodyguard Walter told me about.” She has ice-blue eyes and she looks like she could kill a man, even though she can't be much older than twenty.

“That I am,” he replies.

“Well, you _certainly_ are not doing _your bloody job_.”

Alucard clears his throat and smirks.

“And what would you have me do?”

To his utter delight, she doesn't hesitate.

“Just... Teach him a lesson and keep him out of my sight. For now.”

Alucard makes his way over to the priest. He's quite impressed the man didn't make a run for it; must be some kind of supernatural power holding him in place.

Without further ado, Alucard punches him straight in the jaw, sending him flying towards the dirty brick wall in the back. The man hits it with a sickening crunch, but Alucard's discerning gaze tells him he's still breathing – which means they can leave him be. If he ever goes to the police... Well, tough luck – according to the law Alucard simply doesn't exist, and there's still the issue of why he got attacked in the first place.

Alucard nods at his new employer.

“At your service,” he says curtly.

“Do you have a name?”

_T_ _echnically speaking, no_ , he wants to answer. “Alucard” is a nickname Arthur Hellsing bestowed upon him. He was fourteen back then – barely spoke English at all – but even now he struggles to find anything funny in naming a Romanian kid after a fictional cliché of a monster loosely associated with his homeland. Alucard's real name has been lost in the torrents of the past. For all he knows, it might have even actually been Vlad. Well, that would definitely make for some awful dinner table jokes.

He introduces himself as well as he can.

The woman considers him briefly, mildly interested at best. To be completely honest, it's a bit insulting. He wonders if it's just her default expression.

“Integra Hellsing. Looking forward to working with you.”

She doesn't really sound like she's looking forward to anything, but her dark, angular face softens a little and suddenly he realizes his life is about to get complicated.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be much longer and much more plot-heavy, but I'm trying to follow the "one chapter - one point of view" rule, so I had to cut it in half. Enjoy and feel free to point out any mistakes on my part!

They gather the remains of what used to be her favorite guitar in pouring rain. Integra buries the scraps in a tiny courtyard under a cherry tree, water soaking through her camel coat at an alarming speed. It's a good thing she wore contacts. At least she doesn't have to worry about blurry vision making her trip.

It's hard to get into the swing of things with everything happening at once, but in her imagination she has already lived through this day a thousand times. _Practice makes perfect_ , her father used to say, and as much as it hurts to remember him now, she needs his words of wisdom to keep her hands from shaking.

Her father's death was ice cold and dragged on for weeks, like Russian winter. The case wasn't hopeless, and where there is hope, there is pain.

She still wakes up shivering and clammy, trembling fingers reaching for a cigarette. It stops the screaming.

 _Lung cancer_ , they said. _Not entirely unexpected_. What was it that Freud said about the death drive? She only remembers the original term, mentioned once or twice in her psychology textbook. _Der Todestrieb._ It means you aren't afraid anymore. She sure is.

She tightens her grip on the umbrella she neglected to open and eyes Victoria warily.

 _What a mess_. They should have taken the cab, but _of course_ she had to talk things through and clear her head so nothing would spoil her “big day”. It was _her_ idea to walk and it was _her_ who stopped to buy coffee and kept Victoria waiting outside. It's all her fault, and there's no time to apologize properly. She feels like there's an enormous neon sign that spells “GUILTY” flashing above her head.

The new security guy is hovering somewhere in the background, trading quiet questions for Victoria's almost inaudible answers. They must be talking about The Incident, which makes Integra a bit jealous in a way she really doesn't want to examine too closely. Anyway, they seem to get along well enough, even if his crooked smile doesn't exactly fit the definition of a trustworthy fellow.

He looks a bit like Kyle MacLachlan, but this is _definitely_ none of Integra's business. (What's really concerning is that she hasn't watched a single episode of _Twin Peaks_ in what feels like a year.)

Trustworthy or not, if he tries to touch her soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend, his dismembered corpse will be travelling down the Thames faster than he can say „sleep deprivation is a one-way ticket to temporary psychosis”.

They walk into the bar and Integra calls for Pip, impatiently tapping her foot while he finishes wiping a table. He's a recent addition to the staff and the first one she decided on personally. He's an art student and as much as she loathes to admit this, his _artsy_ predisposition does wonders for the quality of the drinks he prepares.

„Storage room. _Now,”_ she commands. Pip gapes at her and her companions, then almost doubles over in search for the keys conveniently attached to his belt. Seras giggles nervously. Integra hastily arranges for Pip to mix her a drink on the house and half-runs, half-walks into the mouldy expanse of the cellar. She scans the unswept shelves and cabinets for musical instruments, making a mental note to tell Pip to _clean_ _the fuck_ _up_.

She feels so jittery that she must be on the brink of an out of body experience, but she knows how to maintain a facade of perfect calm. As countless university courses have taught her, pretending to be calm is actually the farthest thing from achieving internal balance. It's only sheer force of will that keeps her from screaming when Seras appears out of nowhere, holding what looks like a perfectly functional acoustic guitar.

Integra exhales loudly and takes the instrument in her hands, adjusting the shoulder strap and inspecting the chords.

“Thank you,”she sighs tiredly. “Where did you get it? Judging by the look of this place, I thought it'd be more... rusty.”

“That's a secret,” answers Victoria, a mischievous look on her face. “It's awfully pretty, isn't it?”

Integra scans the elegant curve of the upper bout, admiring the burgundy polish. It's a work of art, and probably worth at least a few hundred pounds.

“I _knew_ you'd like it,” Victoria remarks haughtily. “You don't even have to say anything, it's all on your face!”

Integra fishes inside her blazer pocket for a lighter, offering Seras a cigarette, which she politely declines. Integra exhales a puff of smoke, desperately searching for the right words. She's terrible with those and even worse with feelings.

“So, about what happened earlier...”

“It's not your fault,” Seras explains hastily, too hastily for Integra's tastes. “And I'm alright. Ninety-nine percent alright.”

This is a conversation they've already had countless times. There were other men – insolent men, inebriated men, men who miscalculated and didn't want to apologize, men who forgot about personal boundaries – and it was foolish of them to think that they'd ever stop spoiling things, even if the both of them were obviously uninterested. But Seras had always gotten the short end of the stick, and even though she definitely could handle herself, her evasiveness and reluctance to actually discuss anything with Integra drove the woman mad. She'd heard there was some terrifying family story behind Victoria's behavior, but the one time she tried to talk about it Seras went uncharacteristically quiet and turned off her phone. It happened about a week before Arthur Hellsing's death. Integra was practically living at St. Mary's back then, exhausted both emotionally and physically, drinking eight cups of lukewarm hospital coffee a day. It was a dark time in their lives, one from which neither has entirely recovered.

“You're not alright. We both know this.”

“If you won't stop asking these questions, I'll never be. I can't keep going on like that. I can't have you interrogating me at every turn. _You can't control everything._ ”

“I understand that you need to proceed on your own terms, but surely...”

The look Seras gives her isn't angry, not _per se_ ; it's almost sickeningly apologetic.

“Yes, I need to do this on my own terms,” she cuts her off, visibly withdrawing into herself.

Integra almost says that she only asks out of concern, but she bites her tongue. Seras has the uncanny ability to act authoritatively without infringing on Integra's self-claimed territory; perhaps it's because Victoria's authority feels so different than her own, softer and less invasive. Seeing these words pour out of her mouth is eerily grounding. Realizing that they were there all this time, lying in wait for the right person to hear them, feels terrible. Integra blinks hazily, watching the smoke gather under the sooty ceiling like morning mist.

“You're right.” Her voice sounds more certain than it did in her head. She isn't used to giving up. “We both deserve a break. I'm just sorry I lured you out here tonight. You don't need any of this. Especially not getting involved with my family business.”

_God knows this wreck of a relationship shouldn't cause any more collateral damage._

Seras offers her a tight smile.

“Come on. You can't keep your audience waiting any longer. It is your big day, after all.”

Integra clenches her jaw and snubs out the cigarette on the least-flammable looking surfce at hand. She smoothes out her shirt and finishes tuning the guitar. They do not speak, but the silence is not entirely unpleasant. It definitely isn't the sound of the world falling apart.

 

***

 

When they walk out of the cellar, the murky lights of the parlor burn their eyes like the sun. Integra heads over to the bar, ordering a glass of water. She's not drinking before her first public permormance, although she suspects that's exactly what some members of the audience expect her to do. Walter notices her from across the room and waves at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling almost imperceptibly, like he doesn't want anyone else to see him smile.

It's all nice, sentimental even, until she notices the familiar tall silhouette in the corner. She almost groans audibly. Of course he'd show up today of all times. _Go figure._

It's that annoying choir-boy prick, Enrico Maxwell, down to his ridiculous slicked-back hair and manicured nails.

Integra first met Maxwell at Oxford, when it turned out they were both competing for the same position in the student council. Their brief acquiantance almost ended in bloodshed. Horrendous amounts of overpriced coffee were spilled in libraries; unsavory rumors were spread on campus; rare books were borrowed just to hamper another's research. It was utter mayhem by Oxford standards. The only faculty member brave and observant enough to step in at the right moment was Alexander Anderson, who patiently explained to both impetuous students that a) nobody gives a shit about the student council b) their eagerness to fight for the undesirable position poses serious questions regarding their possible social maladjustment.

And so, here they are - like a lousy punchline in God's greatest joke.

“What's an Oxford girl like you doing in a place like this?”

When did he even get close enough to pester her? She stares at her glass intently, hoping he'll just go away. _Jesus, he reeks of cologne. Is he trying to hide a rotting corpse underneath that vest?_

“Are you going to _sing_? For the, er, _crowds_ that have gathered here tonight? My, what a waste of your talents!”

“Well, I couldn't possibly resist showing off in front of you, considering I'm about to take over a highly profitable business... Unlike _some_ _people_ , who are too busy scrambling to the top to realize they're climbing an active volcano.”

“This dingy shithole? A profitable business? Remind me to send you a postcard from the Vatican. I'm sure you'll appreciate it when you're singing _Yesterday_ at Tottenham Court Road station. My signature might buy you a dinner.”

“Hey boss, is this guy bothering you?” Pip chimes in just in time. Not that she needs help; it's more of a reminder that there are other things to do apart from ripping Enrico Maxwell to shreds.

“This gentleman here would like to order the spiciest thing on the menu, whatever it is. Please make sure he thoroughly enjoys it. And now, do excuse me.”

She walks away, silently counting to ten, only exhaling when she's finished and nobody is trying to get on her nerves. She's already near the stage when the pungent smell of cologne envelops her once more. This time, Maxwell is not smirking, and his words are barely a whisper.

“Such an interesting company you keep, Integra. You're consorting with murderers now?”

She isn't afraid of him, but she does wonder what the hell she has gotten herself into. As far as she knows, Enrico Maxwell has never made a habit of lying.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! I bet you thought me dead.  
> I had a lot on my plate, I've even considered deleting this; but I still remember how this is supposed to play out and I like this idea quite a lot, so bear with me. This chapter contains a fair share of standard Alucard angst, so consider yourselves warned. Just because he isn't a vampire doesn't mean he doesn't have issues, though without the vampirism they appear slightly less glamorous.

“She _loves_ it,” Seras says as she slides into the booth beside him. There's a smile on her face, but she looks a bit paler than before and her eyes droop with barely concealed exhaustion. She's holding up remarkably well, considering what she's been through this evening.

Alucard can't tell whether he's grown soft over the past few years or if he simply likes the girl. No, he definitely likes her. She plays her cards close to her chest, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out she's smarter than she pretends to be.

“How do you know this? Did she actually say that, word for word? _This old guitar is what I've been waiting for all my life_?”

Victoria snorts into her drink.

“ _Of course_ she didn't. The most enthusiasm she's ever expressed verbally was when Walter got her a cashmere jumper for Christmas three years ago. She said it was 'lovely' and never mentioned it again.”

Alucard nods. Weird how life changes people. One day, you're an awfully perceptive twelve-year-old and you force your father's best bodyguard into early retirement; ten years later and you're an Oxford graduate who doesn't know how to say thank you. Not that Alucard is an authority on changing. Or growing up, for that matter.

The booth he and Victoria are sharing is situated next to the entrance, their seats facing a small stage, where a single barstool and a microphone stand against a backdrop of red velvet. The evening isn't what you'd call lively, but it's no longer as silent as it has been before. The steady lull of muffled laughter and gossip is there again, and it's almost like those ten years have never happened.

“Won't you miss it?” Victoria asks out of nowhere, interrupting his train of thought.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean the guitar. Looks like you were taking good care of it.”

He shrugs.

“I guess I'm just not a guitar person.” It rolls off his tongue so easily that he can't help but try to recall when was the last time he'd told a white lie. Well, he _is_ saving his face right now, kind of _._ He's definitely not telling her the disgustingly touching history of how he got that thing. Not now, not ever. At his age, some things that would make a twenty-something appear sympathetic, lose the “sym-” prefix and become straight out pathetic.

“All is well that ends well, then.” Victoria gives him a soft smile. “She actually does need someone looking out for her, you know. Perhaps not the way other people do. But she does.”

The lights begin to dim gradually when Integra appears on the stage. She looks cool and detached, in a Marlene Dietrich sort of way. Adjusting the mic and cautiously easing herself onto the barstool, she searches the crowd with unsmiling eyes. Under her scrutiny, Alucard suddenly feels even older than usual. (Which is pretty old on good days.)

Integra clears her throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you to Van Helsing's. As you may already know, my name is Integra Hellsing and from now on I am in charge of this place,” she gives her audience an almost imperceptible smirk.

“And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get down to business.”

 

***

 

It's 7 AM in the morning and Alucard still hasn't gone to sleep. His brain refuses to acknowledge the oncoming wave of exhaustion, but he knows that his delicate sleep schedule, tenaciously built up since his being relieved from duty by Integra's father, has been completely obliterated. It's not like it's been established without any help (said help consisting primarily of egregious amounts of alcohol), so he shrugs it away for now.

He's sitting in a tacky leather armchair in his flat and comparing the grainy recordings of the pub's security cameras with HD footage of Integra's performance caught on tape by Walter, ever the cunning father figure.

The audio doesn't really carry the thrill and timbre of her voice, but perhaps it's better this way. It's distracting enough as it is, and contrary to what most people would like to believe, he isn't watching the tapes for fun. This relatively unglamorous task is an important part of his job. He usually fast-forwards through most of the security camera footage, but he tries to sit through each performance at least twice. This way he makes sure nobody's inflitrated the closed-off section of the pub while everyone else was preoccupied with the music.

Halfway through the video his stomach growls. He gets up and stomps angrily towards the kitchen. The room is quite spacious but thoroughly uncomfortable and unwelcoming – not exactly dirty, but untidy enough to be unpleasant. The beige lace curtains give it an atmosphere of an apartment recently abandoned by an exceptionally stern old lady.

Alucard shoves yet another package of Sainsbury's shepherd's pie into the microwave. The pungent pile of goo is an insult to God and humanity alike, but his metabolism has always been nothing short of ridiculous and he has to deal with it somehow. He spends most of his generous salary on junk food. (It's not a salary _per se_ , considering there's no legal agreement and he doesn't even own a bank account.)

He turns off the microwave before it beeps and goes back to his seat, the bland sludge already half-finished before he sits down. He's thinking about ordering a pizza when he notices that at a certain peak Integra's voice drowns out the guitar. An untrained ear wouldn't necessarily pick up on this, but any self-respecting artist knows the value of such feedback.

He only realizes what he's doing by the time it's already too late. He's dialed the number. The call's been registered. Even if she doesn't pick up – and hell, he hopes she doesn't – she will know he attempted to contact her and will most definitely ask about it, and if she does ask he will have to tell her that no, there's been no emergency, he just noticed some tiny issue with tuning–

"Integra Hellsing speaking."

He forgot it's 7 AM.

She doesn't exactly sound sleepy, but she doesn't sound like she's had any coffee yet either. Also it turns out he didn't give her his phone number, which has been extremely unprofessional on his part and now -- though he would be the last person in the world to admit it -- makes for profoundly embarrassing conversation.

"Alucard. We got... _acquainted_ yesterday evening."

"Ah, our security department. For the love of God I cannot figure out why our pub warrants such close surveillance. Any particular reason you're calling?"

He weighs his words, feeling a seed of doubt plant itself in his mind. Just how much did Arthur manage to tell her about their family business before he passed on? And if Arthur didn't tell her, should he do it in his stead? He almost laughs at the thought. It will be far more entertaining to watch as the situation develops, anyway.

"Just a small technical mishap during your performance. Some trouble with the mic or the sound system, though it's hard to tell from the recordings alone."

He tries to sound casual and it suddenly strikes him just how pathetic this is, how pitiable of him to act like one of them, to pretend that he's made of the same stuff. He's making small talk, for fuck's sake. It's profoundly disturbing and humiliating.

"I have the recordings on my laptop. Just send me a message with a precise timeframe, I'll figure something out." He hears some rustling and clinking, and suddenly realizes she must've been having breakfast in bed when he interrupted. It's so easy to forget that some people do things like these; cultivate tiny habits in the comfortable privacy of their own lives. Faced with something so unfamiliar, he feels himself shrink. The worst thing is he cannot just stop now, he must continue to mantain his filmsy facade of normalcy. "Forgive me if I do not sound too enthused, but I was hoping to get some papers signed before practice."

"Practice?" He asks emptily and regrets it almost immediately.

"Fencing," she replies curtly. "On a side note, check your email more often. I don't think you know about the staff meeting we have scheduled in three hours."

He catches himself nodding at the phone.

"There's been an incident," she says almost dismissively. "Nothing serious, but I thought you'd– Oh, nevermind, you will see when you get there."

"For sure."

"Goodbye, then. Don't be late."

The call disconnects with a clink.

It felt almost as if she was waving away a bothersome fly.

Alucard can't wait until the havoc her father has stored up for her blows up in her face and devours her whole.

Curling his mouth in distaste, he shoves the phone in the deepest drawer of his desk and shuts it angrily behind him. The familiar fury claws at the back of his like a wild animal eager to get free. How could he forget?

It's a bitter truth; he'll never be one of them. Those people with places to be, postcards to send, post-it notes to put on the fridge. Crowding Camden Town in search for odd jewellry, eating fresh fruit in a park for lunch between meetings. Being able to act the part is a core element of his profession. It shouldn't affect him this much. It shouldn't make him feel like a worthless piece of shit.

He makes a feeble attempt at cleaning the room by throwing empty containers (pizza boxes, cigarettte packs, etc., etc.) in the general direction of the waste bin, but after some four minutes of fumbling and swearing it gets painful and exhausting and he simply lets go.

(He always does.)

Alucard blinks again. There's the lamp, hanging by a single cord from the ceiling, and there's the chair, snapped in half, one leg buried in the TV set, and there is the table, thankfully whole. Alucard breathes. The world feels shaky. He forces his head to turn to look at his bloodied knuckles.

He barely makes it to the mattress in the corner on his unsteady legs, and fishes out a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet. He can't even pour it into a glass, not with his hands trembling like that, so he just swallows it down in greedy gulps, liquid trickling down onto his shirt. It doesn't help, but not drinking doesn't fix anything either. The cold seeps away little by little, leaving an empty, nauseating feeling. He laughs, ribs aching with forced mirth and despair and exhaustion.

Well, at least now he knows how he feels about coming back to Van Helsing's.

  


***

 

It's lunchtime and Regent's Park slowly fills with people. Some sit on the grass, some warily eye the occupied benches. Integra doesn't mind them. Sipping on her tepid mocha latte (venti, triple sugar) she lets her mind wander to yesterday's events. She'll have to do something about the faulty mic, but aside from that minor slip-up, everything went relatively well.

Her phone vibrates. It's a text from Pip; probably one of his clumsy attempts at remaining in her good graces.

**hey boss, can i enlarge the windows a bit? it's a bit dark in here**

She raises her eyebrows.

**I don't know. Can you?**

He texts her back with a photo of what looks like a rusty sledgehammer; probably one of the inexplicable souvenirs left behind by her father in the storeroom.

**We live in London, Pip! People don't want to see what they're drinking. Or their reflection in the mirror on the way out.**

She puts the phone down, thinking she's made it abundantly clear that their conversation is over. Just when she feels it slide into her pocket, the screen lights up again. This time, it's a call from the last person she expected.

"Uncle Richard?" She asks, surprised. She hasn't seen him since she was twelve. He's not her favorite uncle, not that she has many of those, and he's definitely not anybody's favorite Hellsing, having spent his small part of the family fortune on whores and dealings with the Polish mafia in Chicago. "Isn't it awfully late in the States?"

"How about a 'hello' instead, huh? Haven't heard from you in a while, my dear girl!"

She blinks. She's never been his "dear girl" before.

"I've been quite busy." _With my father dying and all._

"Oh, I've heard the news. Pity you didn't call me, I could've helped. Me and Arthur, we've had our disagreements, but we were brothers, you know."

Come think of it, Integra's father didn't even mention Richard in his will. It makes Integra a bit uneasy, though she isn't sure why. He wasn't there for the funeral either, but whether he got an invitation or not was questionable.

"I know. Now, is this a social call or do you have some business with me? I mean no offense, uncle, but I should probably on my way to work. We could speak at a different time, if you'd like," she says in a level voice. She can't blow him off, and she doesn't really feel like it, anyway. He's right; he and her father were brothers.

"Glad you asked! I'm on a business trip in Edinburgh, you see. Quite a train ride to London, but sill closer than on the other side of the goddamned planet! We could meet for a dinner in a week or two, if you'd like."

"I'll email you my calendar. Just pick an empty slot. Do you have a place in mind?"

She could hear uncle Richard's hearty laugh as distinctly as though he was sitting next to her on the very same bench in Regent's Park.

"Oh, I do, I do. Let's make it a surprise."


End file.
